I am in such a state with the pudding
that there's no room left for the sauce;
Ah, such a burning desire for lamb-chops
that my heart will not fit within me anymore.
What secrets bubble in the boiled sheep's-head
not every heart may know;
What sort of delicacy is its brain
that will not fit in every skull?
The pudding is the incense, the fire the dried-dung fuel,
the censer is the pudding pot;
In the yearning for burning
that incense will not fit the censer.
I am the favourite of bread and pudding
I am a match for any amount of sweetmeats,
I bite the lip of the pastry
and words, words no longer fit my mouth.
In the presence of the chicken and the honey-cake
forget about the spilled macaroni;
this is the gathering of airy spirits!
No room for such a soggy mess.
Go, sweet ice-cream,
tire us not
For in the gathering of marzipan
there's no room for aught but sugar.
The stomach of Bushaq
is so stuffed with pie
He no longer searches for candy
And artichokes just won't fit anymore.
-Bushaq At'imah (the Gastronomer)-